Stories as mirrors, I suppose, in all their reflections and vanity. Not sure I necessarily buy this as a film about love but it’s certainly one about seduction, and particularly one about how good stories, if told correctly, can, and do, pull at the heartstrings in ways that we can neither ignore nor escape from. And what is a good story if not the one we need to hear? The one we put in a box and hide away, wishing that one day someone, somewhere, will bring it back to life. A woman spends her life studying stories and finally hears the one she’s been longing to hear, only after telling her own. Miller renders it all in swathes of plastic imagery, down even to the particles that hang in the air. An immaculate construction for an immaculate construction, and a film about how these constructions can be used as a means to an end by their tellers, if told correctly. And, of course, they are. Three thousand years is a long time.